


...and Sherlock

by Kae



Series: Jim and John [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Betrayal, Deception, Domestic Violence, Dreams, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Fear, Gen, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Post The Great Game, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Identity, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kae/pseuds/Kae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We've left John learning his Jim is really Moriarty, about to walk through the door to see Sherlock at the pool. But what is Sherlock's point of view in all this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> FYI this is unfinished - and has been for a few years. I'm not updating this. But feel free to enjoy what's here! It's not very serious or suspenseful, so I hope it's no big deal - and you're also fully allowed to write your own thing in the same vein. I had so much fun with Sherlock, but I just haven't been writing for a long time.

So we know what happens next. John is strapped to a bomb. Moriarty and Sherlock have their big meeting, each trying to one-up the other, and both in near-awe of the closest thing to a peer they have ever seen. 

But as you watch, you can tell so much is going on under the surface. What are they thinking? How do they make these decisions? How do they _know?_ _Do_ they know? Well, my dear friend, that is why you have me. I have tried to fill in some of the holes in this tale, but there is still so much more to be said. We still haven’t seen Sherlock’s side.  

We must be careful not to romanticize him. He is as thorny and as cold as he is intelligent. However we must also be aware that he is indeed human, and no matter how much he wishes he were not bound by humanity’s faults, he is as flawed and feeling as the next person. He falls victim to bouts of warped logic, emotional responses, and shock. He vehemently denies it, and most are fooled, but Moriarty can see right through him. And in the eyes of his peer Sherlock sees a truer reflection of himself.


	2. Initiate

So we begin again, where John has just vacated the flat to go see Sarah. We know he never sees her, but Sherlock, for all his genius, cannot tell the future. He has other things on his mind, _much_ more pressing than John Watson. Or so he thinks.

First of all, we must know Sherlock was extremely excited. He tries to keep it all under wraps, but he is practically giddy with anticipation. Just who _is_ this mysterious, clever, not-in-the-least-boring Moriarty? Well Sherlock has never been a particularly patient or cautious man, so he decided he’ll just have to go find out.

John’s usual patterns of dating women suggested heavily he wouldn’t come home at all that night, and if he did (unlikely) it would be very late. Sherlock knew his attempt to placate his flatmate by offering to get the milk was shocking and uncharacteristic once it had left his mouth. He wasn’t used to manipulating people who knew him. But it didn’t matter. John was preoccupied by thoughts of Sarah. (Well, really it was thoughts of Jim, but of course Sherlock is not a mind reader and couldn’t know of John’s inner turmoil). Sherlock nearly deleted the inconsequential conversation as soon as it was over. He was alone; now it was time to act!

Sherlock had forced himself to sit through that ghastly show, deducing every person he saw, just to keep from drugging John so he would not follow him. John dislikes being out of control, especially by drugs (common reaction to an alcoholic family member). He thinks carefully before taking ibuprofen for a headache, and the look of repulsion on his face the day Lestrade came in with his ‘drugs bust’... anyway, drugging John would have been a bit not good. But another hour of the _inane_ chatter and hopelessly inaccurate paternity tests and he might have done it. 

Thankfully there was no need. As soon as he heard the door shut behind his flatmate, Sherlock had slipped his laptop from it’s hiding place in the chair (he’d been expecting to type in haste while John was in the restroom) and furtively typed the words he had been planning over and over in the back of his mind since they had returned home. 

“Found: The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.” He paused to reconsider his choice of meeting place. But it was so fitting, it had such _cohesion,_ he couldn’t resist. “The pool. Midnight.” 

A little shiver went down his spine in anticipation, and he felt the corner of his mouth tilt upwards, unbidden. Sherlock hit enter with a deliberate finger, heart speeding up. He passed his clenched fist over his mouth in an attempt to regain control over his facial features. He had to be in top form tonight - no slip-ups, no rebelling corners of the mouth. This would most certainly _not_ be boring. No no, a bomber who was a ‘fan,’ thought him ‘sexy,’ and liked to ‘watch him dance,’ _and_ who seemed to have intel across a wide range of criminal activities - this would be the exact opposite of boring. It seemed he may have found a peer in the world of dull, bumbling idiots. Was that too harsh? He didn’t care. This would be good, oho, this would be good.


	3. Miscalculation

The pool looked almost exactly as he remembered it from the Carl Powers case. It wasn’t the same, obviously. It had a new paint job, and the chlorine had been increased to the new regulation, also Sherlock was taller than he had been all those years ago, which changed the point of view. But it still vividly recalled to him the time when everything was new and exciting and the world seemed so much more fascinating. He recalled the frustration from how no one listened to him as a child. They did now. The police nearly bowed down at his feet, but better still he had a _fan._ And he had to admit, to himself, he was starting to return the compliments. This man (and it was a man, he knew, the old woman had died for telling him this) was of a much higher calibre than most of the idiots he outsmarted with ease. 

He heard a tap in the distance, signaling movement, then began to speak. He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice - he had figured it out! The man’s motives were _so clear!_  

“I brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. This is what it’s all been _for_ , isn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from _this._ ” 

Mycroft’s case, it had seemed so boring, so dull. So.. _bureaucratic._ But the fact was that missile plans were valuable, and any criminal who knew what he was doing would jump at the chance to have them. He wouldn’t doubt Moriarty had had his fingers in the pot somewhere there, he was so well connected. So _very_ well connected. Though Sherlock had still gotten there first, it seemed only fair. Moriarty had given him all those cases - such exciting ones, and a deadline too! A real deadline, with someone in danger and an unknown benefactor. But now the unknown was to be made known, and damn it if his blood wasn’t pumping through with adrenaline at the thought.

Sherlock looked around, trying to find the hidden camera or listening-device. If they weren’t going to meet him in person, he wanted to know what he was speaking to. Where it was, it’s make - he wanted to learn everything about this bomber. This _mastermind._

Then he heard a click and turned to face - John Watson. 

No - he’d lived with John Watson. He _knew_ John Watson. He could _not_ be fooled so completely...could he? Sherlock froze, trying to make sense of this conundrum. He frantically backpedaled through all he knew of John Watson. Could it have all been a disguise? An act? The limp, the tan, the army past, the psychiatrist files? He could not have faked the doctor part. John had been with him while he was receiving messages from the hostages - unless he had a lackey retype prerecorded messages, or a timer, or-

“Evening.” John’s voice sounded slightly deeper than normal, as though some emotion was trying to circumvent his calm face. Sherlock couldn’t move, still holding the memory stick aloft, and stuck in the half-twist. His vision would be maximized along with his understanding of the situation at hand if he could only _turn._

“This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock?” John’s voice got harsher. He couldn’t read him - why couldn’t he read him? Was it the angle? Why the parka - it wasn’t even cold! And indoors? The block in Sherlock’s mind terrified him. He couldn’t move past that he had been possibly sleeping with a murderer just upstairs. So _close_ and he never saw it? All his senses were in doubt. It was agonizing.

_“John. What the hell...”_ The gasp that came from his mouth was mortifying. It hid nothing. The level of betrayal was _audible._ And there could be no betrayal without trust - when had he decided to trust this man?  But he _had_ trusted him. Sherlock never trusted people. Never. How had John Watson so entirely worked his way into his life that he could betray him? 

Sherlock Holmes kept people out on principle. Mostly because they were boring, but any sentimental attachment was a vulnerability just waiting to be manipulated. So _how_ had he let John Watson so close without realizing? How had his guard been so down? _How?_  

And there he stood, in that odd parka, in the pool where Carl powers died, his 'fan' - clearly an allusion to all the times he'd said 'fantastic'. It made sense, then, why he hadn't said 'piss off' like a normal person - he wasn't ordinary. And Sherlock hadn’t seen, he hadn’t deduced, he saw John Watson but hadn’t observed that he was simply an illusion, an act, a disguise. 

A minute ago Sherlock had been excited by the prospect of his bomber. But that disappeared the moment he'd seen John. It was replaced by the heaviest sensation in his stomach, and a dizzying swirl of thoughts he that didn't entirely make sense. It was the only thing that could have successfully incapacitated him, he had to give him credit. Sherlock felt slightly faint.

“Bet you never saw this coming.” John was blinking. Why was he blinking so much? Something was off...perhaps he was wrong? What? Sherlock’s addled brain knew there was information he was missing. He was jumping to conclusions and behaving irrationally. He had to regain control - whoever was orchestrating this knew him very well. He _had_ to be rational and collect data without emotion - caring is never an advantage. 

With effort he discarded his theory. He found he could move again. Then his brain caught up - SOS. That’s what John was blinking. Morse code. The relief he felt was completely uncalled for. The game had only just begun, and the first move was a doozy. 

But John wasn’t Moriarty, he wasn’t the mastermind, and he hadn’t broken Sherlock’s trust. Still something was wrong, John wasn’t blinking out SOS in morse code for the hell of it. Sherlock involuntarily took a step towards John, with the idea that somehow being closer to him would be helpful. His mind clearly wasn’t all back yet, and that was the most worrying thing about this situation. Sherlock halted as John opened his coat, and Sherlock saw the wires. Ah, so that was his game. John was his bargaining chip. The only variables were who Moriarty was and what he wanted.

“What would you like me to make him say next?” Moriarty spoke through John as a red light appeared over John’s chest. Sherlock swiveled to try to see the gunman, but could only identify the general direction. The light was hitting the windows just so it was impossible to see in them. It wasn’t a coincidence. Everything about this man was carefully orchestrated. But Sherlock knew he could slip up, he could make mistakes, he could give himself away. The old woman was proof of that. However, she was also proof that Moriarty cleaned up his messes very quickly, and seeing them was punishable by death.

“Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer.” 

Now he was just playing.

“Stop it.” 

Any random person and Sherlock wouldn’t have cared. He hadn’t felt a thing when the old woman was killed. They were all pawns, all inconsequential, all ordinary idiots completely ignorant of the war raging above their heads. He knew Lestrade and John cared, and they thought he should too. But he didn’t. It wasn’t an advantage. It wasn’t a tool he could use to solve the puzzle and ward off boredom. He was only ever excited about the case, the chase, the _game._  

However, this was John, and Sherlock detested the insinuation he was nothing but a ‘dummy.’ It seemed John was a weakness he hadn’t correctly evaluated. 

“Nice touch, this. The pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

The look John gave him, coupled with the way his voice wavered so slightly as he relayed Moriarty’s message, displayed how deeply he was afraid. Sherlock knew John was trying very hard not to show it, but he could see it all the same. Moriarty wanted him to be afraid, and he wanted Sherlock to see it and feel it as if it were his own fear. And by God he did. He did. He was afraid for John. He cared. And he wished it would go away.

“Who are you?” Sherlock spun around. There had to be a way out of this. John couldn’t die. Not now, not when he just realized-


	4. The Peer

“Gave you my number. Thought you might call.” 

A completely different voice sounded across the pool, and the clanging of a door. Sherlock spun towards it. It was taunting. There was no hint of fear in this voice. _This_ was Moriarty. Sherlock saw the edge of a face, still mostly in shadow. He turned towards it, trying to make out the facial features. 

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Both.” Sherlock drew the gun, hoping to gain some leverage. His only bet may be a bluff, but he would sell it with all he had. 

“Jim Moriarty. Hi.” Sherlock felt a flicker of recognition, and tried to place him. Moriarty had no reaction to the gun. Sherlock knew Moriarty was too far away to doubt the legitimacy of the gun, so he was simply self-assured enough to think he was protected by the hidden gunman and the bomb wrapped around John. Well, he kind of was, but that he knew it would make this significantly more difficult. Sherlock would have to devise a way to use the man’s confidence against him.

“Jim? Jim from the hospital?” The smaller man strutted closer along the edge of the pool, not even looking at the gun. Sherlock repositioned the gun to hold it in both hands to try to dissuade him, but he just walked on. 

“Hm, I really make such a fleeting impression? Though I suppose, that was rather the _point.”_ Moriarty spun to look at him, and smiled, looking very pleased with himself, as John flinched. A man who smiled with a gun pointing at him was one Sherlock could respect infinitely. So this was his peer. This was his _fan._ Despite the circumstances, Sherlock couldn’t help being a little intrigued.


	5. The Point of ‘Jim’

John tried to remind himself that this was not the Jim he had thought he knew. This was _Moriarty,_ who had pretended to be Jim. But all John could see was Sherlock and the other half of the pool, and he flinched at the thought that he was nothing to Jim. Nothing to Moriarty. The _point_ of ‘Jim’ was to make a “fleeting impression” on Sherlock, sneak into his space to see him first. John was just a puppet in Moriarty’s plot. 

It shouldn’t have hurt, not after he was knocked out and strung up to a bomb. But it did. He was still processing that he had been attracted to Jim, now there was all this other information, and he couldn’t sort it. 

Jim didn’t exist. The man who pretended to be Jim was the criminal bomber playing a game with Sherlock, and he was a pawn. He felt used. Hell, he _was_ used! 

He saw Sherlock look at him, inquisitive. He nodded that he was unhurt, grimaced that the bomb was, in fact, real. Sherlock would understand. Sherlock could nearly always read him like a book. Everyone, really. John hoped that his earlier activities weren’t painted all over him as well. Well, they probably were, but maybe Sherlock wouldn’t look too closely while there was a bomb strapped to his chest and a murderer giving a long, gloating speech. 


	6. The Consulting Criminal

“Don’t be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

Of course he didn’t. He didn’t look like he _could_ get his hands dirty. Moriarty was small and thin and gave the impression he spent most of his time huddled in a dark room behind a desk. But Sherlock knew that his suit was selected to fit just so it would make him seem smaller. It worked to his advantage to be overlooked more often than not. The suit was clearly designer, high quality, very pricey. How nice, Moriarty had gotten all dressed up to meet him. He was in charge of a whole operation of crimes, and he had come out to play with Sherlock. He felt flattered, really. The suit had been worn a while now, and Sherlock could see the traces on his shoes and cuffs and jacket that told him Moriarty had been by the river, in a car with leather seats, and in a warehouse where forgeries were done with water-based ink.

Moriarty stopped walking and smiled - he had seen Sherlock looking at him. Moriarty was deliberate, so everything Sherlock had seen was constructed. He was being allowed to know, and Moriarty knew he’d seen what he was supposed to.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse, of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world.” He smiled slightly, clearly proud of what he was going to say next, but was trying to control his expression. Or was he simply trying to make it look as though he was trying to control his expression?

“I’m a specialist, you see.” Moriarty looked directly at Sherlock to say these words, “like you.” The admiration was clear. Well of course, that was obvious. But Moriarty knew that, he just liked to hear himself say it. Well that seemed appalling, to constantly be at the beck and call of the lowest idiots who would pay for their lives to be easier.

“Dear Jim...please will you fix it for me...to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister, dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America.” Moriarty was smiling, he knew just what Sherlock was thinking. Perhaps he thought the same of his career choice.

“Just so.”

“Consulting criminal. Brilliant.” It was. Really. Still seemed dull in comparison, but it would be a strong second choice. And it’s not like he didn’t have the same idiots contacting him with their little problems as well. 

“Isn’t it.” 


	7. Just Another Idiot Wrapped in a Bomb

He couldn’t be serious. John’s gaze flicked back and forth between Sherlock and Jim - _Moriarty._ Oh, but he was. John knew Sherlock had been excited about Moriarty’s involvement in the last few cases, but this - this was reverence. This was respect. 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Sherlock was looking at Moriarty with something like longing. But that was absurd, Sherlock didn’t do that sort of thing. Want. Sherlock didn’t want people. He wanted cases and cigarettes and probably harder drugs and to conduct his own experiments rather than trust anyone else’s work and above all to not be bored. 

But the more John saw the look on Sherlock’s face the more he wondered. And the way Sherlock said ‘dear Jim’ was deep and breathy, with something like awe colouring the words. John wondered if maybe something about Moriarty represented a lack of boredom to Sherlock. A worthy opponent in a world filled with ‘idiots’ like John. John knew he wasn’t even factored in, he was just there, just useful, just used. Just another idiot wrapped in a bomb, while Sherlock made googley eyes at Jim - _Moriarty_ \- and each tried to prove the other was less intelligent. 

Jealousy shouldn’t even be fathomable. Both him and Sherlock were in danger of being killed by a maniac. But there it was, in the back of his mind like an itch. He felt looked over, taken in, and insignificant. He didn’t matter to either of them. And it pissed him the fuck off.


	8. Opponents

“No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.” 

The consulting criminal looked almost sad when he looked away, as though he wanted Sherlock to feel sorry for him, the lonely genius in the centre of a web that he can control with a flick of his wrist but never finds anything a challenge. He said the last words as a dare, looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes over the gun that Sherlock hadn’t moved in minutes. His hands were starting to get a bit sore, but he wasn’t about to lower his only weapon. Sherlock cocked the gun to bring them back to the point.

“I did.”

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my _way!”_

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes you did.”

_“Yeah,_ okay, I did.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face. They really were peers. No one but his brother could keep up with him this fast. It was nice for a change. And Moriarty was most definitely _not_ his brother.

“But the flirting’s over Sherlock, daddy’s had enough now! I’ve shown you what I can do, I cut loose all those people, all those little problems - even 30 million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear, back off.”

Moriarty was getting serious again, and Sherlock’s smile disappeared. They may be peers, but they were not on the same side. They were opponents, and Moriarty was a dangerous one. 

“Though I have loved this. This little _game_ of ours. Playing _Jim_ from _IT,_ playing gay - did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

John looked severely disconcerted at this statement, but Sherlock didn’t have the space to give it any attention. He remembered his side, and now he had to speak for it.

“People have died.”

“That’s what people **do!”**

Jim’s voice sounded across the pool, echoing. Sherlock thought he heard a door slam in the distance, and wondered what Jim was trying to cover. But he didn’t have time. He didn’t have space. This was escalating quickly, and John was still in danger. 

“I will stop you.”

“No you won’t.” The voice was forcedly casual. Sherlock now recognized the over intonation in Moriarty’s voice as a defense mechanism. It was designed to make people wary, much like his own monotone. To startle and distract from any tells audible in his tone. It was smart. Very smart. But the longer he listened to him speak, the easier it was to distinguish true emotion from the false. And this was false. Jim was worried. Sherlock still had some power. Still, with Moriarty’s gunman behind him and John strung up to a bomb, Sherlock still held enough power to make Moriarty worried. And _that_ he could use. 

“You alright?” He said it more as a distraction, to bring Moriarty’s attention away from him and onto John while he thought, but Sherlock found he was actually concerned. John looked a little dazed, as though he might faint. Sherlock had never seen the soldier faint, but everyone had a breaking point. He hoped this wasn’t John’s. They still had a ways to go yet.

Jim crept up behind John and spoke right into his ear; “You can talk,” John winced, although his voice wasn’t all that loud. As though the closeness of Moriarty was repulsive to him. Well he _had_ kidnapped him and strung him up to a bomb. “Johnny boy, go ahead.” John no longer looked dazed. He looked very much alert. He looked grim, almost angry, and nodded at Sherlock’s silent request. 

“Take it.”

“Oohh, that,” Moriarty walked away from John and towards him. “Missile plannnns.” He took them. Maybe this could be over now. 

“Bo-ring!” Apparently not. Sherlock had expected nothing less. “I could’ve gotten them anywhere.” And then two things happened; Moriarty tossed the memory stick into the pool, and John rushed up and jumped onto Moriarty’s back.

“Sherlock run!” John called out as he wrapped his arms around the consulting criminal’s neck. Sherlock hadn’t counted on this. He discarded his half-formed plan, and stumbled back a step, his mind reeling, trying to latch onto a course of action that would result in them both being alive. It didn’t even enter his mind to leave John.

  



	9. God, This Was Not the Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yeah for this one just bear in mind that I am female and know absolutely nothing about how the male anatomy works, but I've heard stories of awkward erections and well...yeah this was the logical conclusion)

As John was clutching tight to a writhing Jim Moriarty, it happened. His body hadn’t caught up with his mind. It was a life or death situation, but clearly his body didn’t know that. It was still stuck barely an hour ago, back in the shower, or back in the alley, or back in the pub. Or even back in the lab, when he’d first laid eyes upon this man who had thrown into conflict everything he thought he knew about himself. It was bad timing, to say the least. Here he was, in the middle of trying to save Sherlock’s damn life from this mass murderer and, well, he had an erection. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Mortifying, really. 

John’s mind had caught up - Jim was Moriarty, Moriarty killed people, Moriarty was threatening Sherlock and it was likely they would both be killed. His only weapon was the bomb he was wearing and his body, but he could make that work. 

Yet his lower parts seemed to still only recognize Moriarty as Jim. Jim, the most attractive man he had ever met. Jim, who had hand-fucked him in the alley ‘till he saw stars, and held him close in the shower just meters from where they were standing. But, God, that Jim didn’t exist. There was no Jim. There was only Moriarty, and guns, and bombs, and death, and the ridiculous power-plays of geniuses that went completely over his head. 

But pressed as tightly together as they were, with Jim Moriarty wriggling and writhing to try to break free, with John concentrating so hard on trying to keep hold of him, it was suddenly impossible to govern it. And Moriarty knew. He couldn’t help but know. They were too close together for him not to feel it, pressed into him as it was. God, this was _not_ the time. 

Moriarty was laughing, saying “g _oo_ d, v _e_ ry good,” in a voice that _meant_ he knew. 

John tried to get ahold of his voice, but it was only a whisper, as Moriarty was stronger than he looked and now he knew and was moving in _that_ way so John’s arms wanted to loosen but they _couldn’t,_ he wouldn’t let them.

_“Your sniper...pulls the trigger Mr. Moriarty then we both go up.”_ John called him Mr. Moriarty to establish the separation of identities. This was _not_ the same man he had been having a drink with. In no way did John think that. Jim could not make him trust him again, and he would hate Moriarty for the rest of his life. Which, admittedly, might not be very long. But the point was that there were _no_ residual feelings. 

Except that there were. He had been so attracted to Jim. Both physically and to his personality. Jim had been so shy, but took charge and _oh._ God, it was not the time. But Jim had made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever. He had felt excited, nervous, young. It was a fear, but it was an _exciting_ fear. None of his dates with Sarah had ever made him feel anything but tired, as though he was looking for something that just wasn’t there. As though the part of him that had been able to love had died in Afghanistan, and he was just going through the motions. But Jim had found that again. But God, Jim didn’t exist!


	10. The Heart of the Matter

“He’s sweet I can see why you like having him around. But then again people get so sentimental about their pets.” Moriarty was trying to dislodge him, but John just held on tighter, wincing as Moriarty’s shoulder hit him in the chest. “So touchingly loyal. _Ooops!”_ Sherlock saw the flicker of movement in the window behind them, and saw Moriarty follow his eyes. Moriarty smiled. A true smile this time. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.” 

Sherlock saw the direction of their gaze and the horror cross John’s face and knew what he had predicted when John had moved forwards had happened. There was another sniper on the other side of the pool - they had arrived when Moriarty had shouted. That was the sound he was trying to cover up. 

John stumbled backwards and raised his arms, looking horrified, then frustrated. Sherlock knew John realized his mistake, how he had let his emotions get the better of him and stepped right into Moriarty’s trap. John might not be a genius, but he learned from his mistakes better than most. Wait, was that a fact, or was it simply sentiment warping his view? Moriarty brushed his jacket, reestablishing himself as the calm, powerful party. 

“Westwood.” Ah, Sherlock thought he recognized the design. “You know what happens if you don’t leave me alone Sherlock.” The dead look in Moriarty’s eyes was all his own. “To you.”

“Oh, let me guess I get killed.” Sherlock used his most bored tone of voice. Every little signal was a tool. Every intonation, every flicker of sight or twitch of a hand - it was all a game of chess played to the death. Any moment could expose his king, but Sherlock was playing to protect two which was infinitely harder. 

“Kill you?” And Jim Moriarty was back to the over-dramatized facial expressions. “No, don’t be obvious, I mean I’m going to kill you anyway, someday. I don’t want to rush  it though. I’m saving it up for something special. No no no no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you.” 

_‘What, is that supposed to be poetic?’_ Sherlock thought, _‘Give me nightmares? Yes, I get it, heart = ‘the things I care about.’ Haven’t you heard? I’m a psychopath who cares about no one and nothing. There’s significant evidence, even my own mother believes it._

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” 

_‘Isn’t it?’_ Sherlock thought, but there was the proof of Moriarty’s statement standing right behind him, looking tired and scared and as though he were beating himself up rather harshly in his mind for walking - or rather jumping - into Moriarty’s trap. 

“Well I’d better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat.”

“What if I was to shoot you now. Right now.” He wouldn’t, of course. The most important question that hasn’t been answered is whether or not the snipers were real. John had said the bomb was real, but were the red dots really signifying men with guns? Moriarty definitely worked with the dramatic, so it would be possible he was here alone. But that couldn’t be answered now. The one question Sherlock could find out the answer to was whether or not Moriarty believed _his_ bluff.

“Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face,” he demonstrated, “‘cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit...disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Then the consulting criminal strolled away from the pool looking as though he had gotten exactly what he wanted from the encounter. What that was, Sherlock had to admit, he was no longer wholly certain. But Sherlock had seen the slight contraction of the pupils to indicate true fear - Moriarty had believed his bluff. This was important - he was not as all-seeing as he would claim. Sherlock had something he didn’t - he could win this. He could win this if he were very, very careful.

“Catch you...later.”

_“No you won’t!”_


	11. Overload

As soon as he heard the thump of the door closing behind Moriarty, Sherlock lowered the gun - and all pretense of being completely unaffected by the events that had transpired. He launched himself at the coat trapping the bomb around John, frantically trying to make his fingers obey him and get the bomb _off._

“Alright. _Are you alright?!”_ Sherlock could hear the panic in his own voice, but it didn’t matter anymore, Moriarty was gone and wasn’t there to catalogue his every reaction. He could allow himself to feel his terror, and it was strong for its confinement in the compartment of his Mind Palace labeled _‘not yet.’_ He had much more to think about than governing his tone of voice, now it wasn’t vital.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine. Sherlock. _Sherlock!”_

Once he had gotten the jacket-bomb off John and far enough away from them, then saw John was alright enough to stand, he darted back to the door to make sure Moriarty was really gone. There was no sign of him, and Sherlock locked the door. It wouldn’t really help if Moriarty decided to come back, but he wasn’t thinking logically anymore. Now that the immediate threat was gone, his body’s reactions were kicking into overdrive. He was sweating and out of breath and his heart was racing as though he had been running for miles. He couldn’t stand still. _What_ had just happened? What did Moriarty want? What did he get? _Why_ were the missile plans unimportant? How had he taken John? How had he overlooked John as his weakness? Why was John his weakness? _Were_ or _weren’t_ the snipers real?

“You okay?” 

John’s voice sounded as if it were far away, and Sherlock tried to swim back to reality. 

“Me? Yeah, fine. I’m fine.” Sherlock found he couldn’t breathe properly. “That uh, thing that you...” he couldn’t speak, sentences weren’t working, he couldn’t stop pacing and his heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. “...you did-that you offered to do, that was uh...” there was suddenly a peculiar sensation in his throat that made it difficult to speak. As though he had swallowed something and it was stuck in his throat, but he hadn’t. “Good.” 

John had offered to die for him. It hit him as he spoke, _John_ had offered to _die_ so that he might live. For him. For _him._ All Sherlock had thought of at the time was the strategy, Moriarty, trying to find a solution so that they both might come out alive. Certainly John’s chances hadn’t looked up, Moriarty saw him as expendable. John must have seen that. And as John had said earlier his last wish when he had thought he was going to die was the strong wish to live. Therefore, John valued life above all else. But for _Sherlock_ he would die? The only explanation was some sort of strong emotional bond John felt for Sherlock. 

But now was no time to ponder this; now was the time to recall what had transpired with Moriarty, hold the information, press it into his long-term memory. John was left alive - clearly for no other purpose than to be used against him at a later date. Kidnapping had been message enough to leave death for another day. But Sherlock didn’t care, didn’t mind, John was _alive._ He didn’t believe in God nor luck, but if he did he would have thanked it. 

“I’m glad no one saw that.”

“Hm?” Right - John, now, speaking, _alive._ He locked onto the sight of John’s face and allowed it to pull him back to the present, physical world.

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

“People do little else.” The nervous laughter threatened to creep up his throat and turn to full-blown hysterics, so he kept it down but for a smile he couldn’t quite keep from stretching his lips. 

  



	12. The Next Move on the Chessboard

      But just as Sherlock was starting to relax, and John was regaining control of his legs, a small red dot blossomed on his chest. Sherlock's heart clenched at the sight, and he quickly gathered the emotions that had been let lose and stuffed them back in their cage. Sherlock drew back into himself, bringing his face back into its cool mask of unaffected intellect. He should have known better than to trust the calm. The game was still being played, and he had fallen for the false recess. The only thing for it, as most everything else, was to bluff. And this was a bluff he had perfected his whole life, never to be called on it. Until tonight, that is.  
         Seeing the look in his eyes, John looked down and saw it, the colour foreshadowing the red of blood it was aiming to spill.  
        “...oh...”  
        “Sorry boys! I’m so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair, it is my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”  
        Sherlock looked at John and he nodded. He had already offered, no matter that it was the both of them this time. John knew how much chaos this man would cause. His morality would allow this, though for Sherlock it was only the next move on the chessboard. Sherlock couldn’t seem to wrench his eyes away from John even as he started to speak to Moriarty.  
        “Probably my answer has already crossed yours.”  
        Moriarty looked completely smug and self-satisfied as Sherlock pointed the gun directly at him. Another underestimation of the lengths he was willing to go to - good. Sherlock slowly moved his hand down to aim it directly at the bomb that, minutes ago, had been wrapped around John, and was now an equal distance between them and Moriarty. Sherlock saw the smile on Moriarty’s face falter and slip away. He had not expected this at all. Sherlock knew John’s earlier stunt would have convinced Moriarty that they would have fought to the death for the other to survive. He thought Sherlock valued his life and that of his friends more than winning, and that's where he was going to bring them down. To put all their lives in the balance, with unity and conviction - Moriarty could not have predicted this. Their previous actions did not logically lead to this conclusion. Which is what made it so perfect.


	13. The Disruption

Suddenly, tinny music echoed through the pool, bouncing off the walls. It would have been comedic if they weren't all so tense. As it was, Sherlock found himself unfortunately off-balance. Moriarty’s face seemed frozen in place, like a mask. Sherlock could tell he was swiftly calculating his next move. The music was a mobile, and-

“Do you mind if I get that?”

-and clearly Moriarty had reasoned it might be someone important. Or a good distraction. It was already working to his favour. Sherlock needed to get the upper hand, but he wasn’t about to show an ounce of alarm. 

“Oh no please. You’ve got the rest of your life.”

A statement that would have held power 6.3 seconds ago merely fell flat, seeming overdramatic and silly in this new aural environment. Sherlock noted the failure with interest and little concern. It was a clever disruption, but Sherlock observed Moriarty’s facial expression (exasperated) so it was clearly not planned. Unless this facial expression was contrived, like Moriarty’s tone of voice. Sherlock had not yet determined the exact difference for Moriarty’s face. He would eventually, but now it was not one of the weapons he had on his side. Sherlock was losing ground fast. He had had _such_ a good strategy, too, but it was lost now. He was having difficulty giving it up.

“Hello? Yes of course it is, what do you want?”

The way Moriarty was moving about, talking, even turning his back on the gun reduced Sherlocks illusion of power. What had looked like an excellent move mere seconds ago was now thrown into doubt.

_‘Sorry’_ Moriarty mouthed at Sherlock. _‘It’s fine’,_ he replied in the same fashion. Of course, it was. Despite losing his ground, Sherlock found this occurrence fascinating. Someone was important enough to drag Moriarty from this game with Sherlock. Someone perhaps had power over him, or had something he did in fact want, unlike the missile plans.

**“Say that again!** Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me I will find you, and I will skin you.”

Sherlock looked at John, who was similarly bemused by Moriarty’s choice of words.

“Wait.” Moriarty lowered his phone, looking deep in thought. Then he began to walk. Slowly, but not cautiously. Sherlock flicked the safety off the gun as a deterrent, and Moriarty seemed to think better of his path at the last second, inches from the bomb. Moriarty stared at it, not really seeming to see it. 

“Sorry. Wrong day to die.” 

Oh how insufferably overdramatic Moriarty was. Sherlock suppressed an eye roll.

“Did you get a better offer?” 

Moriarty frowned at his mobile. “You’ll be hearing from me Sherlock.” 

And then he positively sauntered away, his back to Sherlock’s gun as though it posed no danger at all. He looked almost - tired. Bored. Sherlock felt a tad insulted. 

“So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.” 

And with that, the consulting criminal left, snapping his fingers, and the snipers’ laser targets evaporated.

Sherlock didn’t relax. Didn’t trust the hasty departure again. He waved the gun around cautiously, but there was no cleanup crew, no other enemy to defend himself and John against. It wasn’t over, not by far. He had so many questions, and not near enough information. Who was on the other side? What did they have that Moriarty wanted? Why had that led to Moriarty sparing his and John’s lives? There was a missing element at play, and he was determined to discover exactly what it was. 

“What happened there?”

“Someone changed his mind. The question is, who?”


	14. The Quiet After

John knew Sherlock didn’t expect an answer. Rarely could he ever supply one if Sherlock didn’t know something. It _did_ happen on occasion though. Sometimes. John got up as Sherlock went over the entire pool with his magnifying glass. He tried to stretch the tightness from his muscles. Being on alert this whole time without moving had given him what felt like a cramp all over. He needed to get into better shape. After he was shot he hadn’t kept up with his regime because he was recovering and out of the army and useless. There was no point. But now his leg was completely fine, and he was running into danger at Sherlock’s heels every so often there was really no excuse. 

John wondered why he was thinking about exercising after the roller-coaster of insanity he’d just been on. Perhaps it was shock. At least shock was preferable to freaking out. He didn’t know what Sherlock was looking for. He really hoped Moriarty wouldn’t come back again. That was terrifying, thinking they were safe and then being the exact opposite. It really was too good to be true that they’d made it out of that alive and completely uninjured. He could practically send whoever sent Moriarty that phone call flowers. 

John was in the middle of shakily stretching his left leg when he noticed Sherlock was staring at him. 

“Ready to go then?” 

“Yes.”

“Well alright, you could have said something instead of standing there waiting for me to notice.”

By the time he was finished speaking his sentence, Sherlock had already moved past him and out the door, and John caught it as it swung back, hurrying after his friend. Sherlock was completely silent for the walk home. It was rather long, and after their ordeal John would have liked to take a cab, but at least his muscles were getting some use after staying tense so long. He really had to start working out again, this was positively ridiculous. 

John wasn’t perturbed by Sherlock’s silence. Actually, he would have been surprised if Sherlock had been talkative. He was really only chatty when he was explaining something he was excited about or thinking aloud. His more serious thinking was silent, and clearly he had a lot to think about. Most of what went on at the pool went over John’s head, other than jumping on Moriarty was a mistake of epic proportions, and Sherlock...Sherlock had actually seemed touched by it. Odd. He had never said thank-you before. Not that he’d actually said the words “thank you” but it was really the same thing. It had usually been an unspoken assumption that John would go to his side in moments of mortal peril. It was certainly a pattern. John didn’t know how it was anything new to Sherlock, but he wasn’t going to look a thank-you horse in the mouth, or however the phrase went. 

  



	15. A Leisurely Stretch of the Mental Capacities

Sherlock was deep in thought, trying to memorize the events that had transpired, organize them into categories, and file them correctly in his mind palace for the entire walk back to the flat. Walking helped the blood flow, and hopefully would get rid of the nervous energy still thrumming though his veins. He usually didn’t go to his mind palace while people were around, but he needed to do this presently and he didn’t want to hang around the pool any longer than necessary. 

He was determinedly not thinking about what he had realized about his own situation because it was significantly less important than memorizing Moriarty’s movements, facial expressions, tone of voice, words, signals to the snipers, among other things. He had to prioritize. He was in control of his own mind - that’s what the mind palace was for. 

Anyway, walking with John was significantly more alone than sitting in a cab with a driver. After the cabbie John shot exposed their valuable position, he was more aware of their presence than before and going to his mind palace while being viewable in a rear-view mirror was less than ideal. And he wasn’t searching through it - for that he would have to be completely still and absolutely alone. No, he was filing which took less concentration than searching. But it still took a fair bit.

Concentration that was unfortunately disrupted, once they were in the flat and sitting in the main room with tea, by John swearing profusely. 

“Really John those words are hopelessly vague and can be wildly misinterpreted in any number of ways by one who is not so skilled at deducting tone of voice. You might think of building your vocabulary with all your spare time.”

“Spare time? What spare time, I’m either at work or running all over bloody creation after-” he took a breath, and did not complete his sentence. “It’s Sarah, I didn’t call her. She’s going to think I stood her up. Shit.” John angrily fished his mobile from his trouser pocket and checked it, only to snappily eject “Damn!” then put it back in his pocket with the same movements. Clearly there were missed messages of an unfortunate nature.

He didn’t wait for John to speak before launching into his deduction aloud. As John may have sore muscles from the constant tension - he felt the need to stretch his mental capacities after the run in with Moriarty. But while John’s difficulties originated from inaction, the best analogy for Sherlock’s exercise was a leisurely stroll after running.

“Based on the time you left and the time I arrived at the pool there would have been an hour and twenty-five minutes to account for. Given the location of the pool in relation to the location of your date, it would have taken twenty minutes to walk, five minutes to take a taxi or drive, therefore Moriarty would have abducted you approximately 45 minutes into your date with Sarah and still have arrived at the same time I did. However he could not have predicted my exact time of arrival, only assumed I had left when I posted on my website, so he would have likely abducted you ten minutes earlier, therefore making you 35 minutes into your date with Sarah. So something had occurred in that 35 minutes after which would have been rude, yet not unexpected, for you to depart with haste.” 

Only then did Sherlock open his eyes and allow himself to gather the physical evidence available to him. He tilted his head, paying closer attention to John than he had yet that night. John shifted uncomfortably as Sherlock peered at him intently. John then left the room, clearly to get more tea, and likely from some sort of discomfort. Likely his stiff muscles were paining him again. No matter, Sherlock had all the data necessary - clearly John had been engaged in a sexual act with Sarah preceding the abduction. 

"Surely Sarah will understand why you disappeared so soon after intimacy. Abduction is a solid alibi."

"After...?” John gasped in surprise. Really, one would think he would be used to Sherlock’s deducting capacities by now. “Sherlock...” John started, but seemed to think better of that train of thought, and shook his head with fatigue. 

“Oh never mind, I'm going to bed. I'll tell her I got the runs or something." And with that John stomped up the stairs, clearly agitated by this situation with Sarah.

 


	16. While Curiosity Killed the Cat...

Sherlock had never regarded his curiosity as anything to suppress. Despite his lack of interest in a romantic relationship of his own, they were fascinating to observe. So many little, trite rules that people expected each other to instinctively know, without ever voicing them explicitly or writing them down. Romance was also a large factor in crime, so it was always useful to add to his observations. Hence, without an ounce of shame or hesitation, the instant John was out of earshot, Sherlock had fished the mobile out from the pocket of Johns jacket, and was skimming through the missed messages.

Earliest was a text; "Where are you? You remember we planned to meet at *location* right John? I don't want to be pushy, but you are 20 minutes late. We said we'd meet at 8. Are you alright? Please let me know."

After another 15 minutes there was a voicemail. "John, this is Sarah. We had a date today for 8, and it's now nearly 9. I'm worried about you. If you've forgotten or asleep you'll get what's coming to you."

Ten minutes later another text with similar wording. Dull. But then at 11:17pm there was a very drunk and high-pitched, screeching voicemail. 

"John Watson you are an ARSEHOLE misogynist dickhead. You think you can just duck out on me without even having the fucking DECENCY to break up with me to my face. Well FUCK YOU. Yeah that's right, something I'll never do. I'm not giving you any more second chances. You didn't deserve this one, but you BLEW IT! You blew it. Oh just go blow your flatmate. I didn't want to believe what they said, that you're some goddamn fag that's in the market for a beard. But obviously that's just what you are. Dick. Cocksucker. I'll bet you like it up the ass you sick fuck. He's all you ever FUCKING TALK ABOUT good God! I should have KNOWN! You've got a blog practically dedicated to him. You know...you know it's not that you're gay. It's that you completely deny it and made me think you liked me and led me on and WHAT KIND OF PERSON DOES THAT for fucks sake?! Good God, John. Just grow a backbone already." There was a clicking sound that indicated she must have closed the phone with some force, then that was the end.

The text John must have seen, and the last attempt at communication on Sarah’s part read; "I'll still speak to you at work, there's no reason for us to behave like children. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me any more. I will not go out with you again. You get no more chances. I'm sorry for my voicemail, I didn't mean it, what I said. It was mean. But you've been a jerk, John. Please don't try to talk to me. I've made up my mind. Don't make this harder than it has to be. Goodbye John. Also the Kenedy family has requested to change to a female doctor, so I'll need their files on Monday morning. I'll see you at work."

Fascinating. The range of emotions in such a short time, the clearly depicted mental scars from past relationships that coloured her actions (he could tell simply from the messages that a past boyfriend had cheated on her, and another had just left without coming back). No wonder romance was the heart of so many crimes, it seemed to completely twist all logic while it was in play. Only when Sarah decided to remove her feelings from her interactions with John was she able to again behave with reason. Yes this followed the observed pattern quite nicely. 

Sherlock paused in his process of adding data to this side experiment as a thought hit him. John had never met up with Sarah. She had also said she would ‘never fuck him’ not ‘never again.’ 

So then with whom had he engaged with in sexual acts...?

 _Oh._  

Well. 

That was certainly unexpected, if not entirely unprecedented. Back in the lab John had connected his use of product with their discussion of Jim's sexuality, and Sherlock had added that to a growing list of factors that backed up his hypothesis that John was not the completely straight man he believed, but in fact held a repressed bisexual tendency. Not uncommon for someone in the army, or other "macho" career fields where an affinity for the same gender was still commonly viewed with violent contempt. However, Sherlock had been fairly certain this tendency was still repressed, and not yet apparent to John’s conscious mind. Interesting.

It wasn't that Sherlock spent all his free time analyzing his flatmates inner life, but rather it was simply who he was, what he did. It helped ward off boredom to deduce those around him. For instance Lestrade’s wife was cheating on him, he knew, and he was still willing to stay with her. Also his teenaged son likely suffered from chronic masturbation and showed all the early signs of becoming a sex addict. In her younger days, Mrs. Hudson had 67 sexual partners. Most at different times of course. She had stayed monogamous with her husband for 7 years until he succumbed to his violent tendencies. Then she exacted revenge by cheating mercilessly with his friends. She was very open-minded about those sorts of topics for someone her age, and resultantly often felt ostracized in a group of, to use her words from her diary "prudes and busybodies." It was one of the reasons Sherlock liked her. He preferred people who were interesting - unlike Anderson who's every thought was commonplace. His dullness personally offended Sherlock. He hoped to one day get the man fired, or at least moved to another division so Sherlock would not have to interact with such mediocrity. Dullness simply irked him. He could not tolerate it. 

But this was not dull. No, and even better it gave him a new insight into Jim Moriarty. Fascinating. Whether or not Moriarty was actually homosexual was up for debate. He had claimed to be “playing gay,” but that meant nothing. It could be he simply saw an opening for manipulation and used it to his best advantage. 

But was it his best advantage? Really, would it not have been more effective to, through romance, earn John’s trust and eventually have him work against Sherlock? Perhaps that had been Moriarty’s original plan. It certainly should have been - Sherlock remembered he himself hadn’t even realized how deeply John had inserted himself into Sherlock’s life and work until that very night when Moriarty had pointed it out to him. How _essential_ John was. It was unfortunate, really, but Sherlock couldn’t regret it. (He tried. He gave it his best shot, but he couldn’t picture cutting John out at this point). Well drat. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t take on Moriarty with one hand tied behind his back, so to speak. He would simply have to be more careful, collect more data. Simple. Doable. John Watson could stay. No reason he couldn’t. Preferable, really, as he was handy with that gun of his. And seemed to place Sherlock’s life above his own...no. Sherlock was not going to think about that now. He could feel the emotions rising up, and he mentally ushered them back in their little box. Where they belonged. _Stay._

So if it _had_ been Moriarty’s original plan to use John, what had happened to foil it? John may have caught on. Had Moriarty exposed his true nature? No no, he was clearly too good to break character. That’s too amateur a misstep. John must have exposed something then. ‘No, not exposed _himself,’_ Sherlock cursed his literal mind,(although he clearly had, since the two of them had engaged in - _No. Not the time. Back. Stay._

John must have demonstrated something that revealed his unwavering loyalty to Sherlock. _Unwavering loyalty._ Sherlock’s heart lurched at the phrase, as the box gave way. _Shut up._ He swallowed, tightening his jaw and shoved them back again.

So - there. That’s what it said about John. His new-found realization of his entire sexual identity and the confusion it likely created were simply strings to Moriarty, making his puppet dance. “Gottle-o-gear, gottle-o-gear.” A dummy. Ah. So it was more than a gibe at John’s intelligence. Sherlock frowned at the memory. John was a doctor. He was significantly more intelligent than a good portion of the world’s population. Considerably less so than Sherlock and Moriarty without a doubt, but still. Not an Anderson. Anyway, not important. Jim found him useful - until he wasn’t. 

 

Oh, that would do. That would do quite nicely. A smile slowly broke along Sherlock’s face, cracking the ‘thinking mask’ that had been frozen on it for hours. Sherlock had a plan.


	17. The Domestic

John was absolutely, completely exhausted to his very core. He had so many things to think about, but they would have to wait for the morning. He needed to sleep. No, he was not going to think about that final sounding text he had skimmed over from Sarah. Neither was he going to think about how it might effect their work. If he got fired he wouldn’t be able to pay for his share of the flat. That was another thing he was not going to think about. Along with his ‘sexuality crisis’ and Jim/Moriarty/Jim Moriarty/whoever the hell that evil, twisted _(sexy)_ son of a bitch was. Yup. Not thinking. Sleeping. 

John frowned pointedly at his ceiling, silently outlining all the reasons for him to go to sleep, as though his ceiling had the power to grant him his unconsciousness. He was tired. He could make tea, but tea had caffeine, which would, despite its calming effect, wake him up. He could have another shower, but standing in the brightly-lit bathroom might just wake him up more. Or he could fall asleep standing up and crack his head open on the side of the tub. Oh, now that was a soothing image. Yikes. He pulled the too-warm covers over his head and focused on his breathing until he finally drifted off. 

 

...only to be suddenly awoken with his senses all on alert. He breathed in sharply, eyes still closed. There was light filtering through his eyelids, but he couldn’t have gotten more than 4 hours of sleep. He groaned, it seemed the adrenaline from last night was still going through his system. He rolled over, only to find his face hit something warm that most certainly should not have been there. He pulled back as his eyes flew open to find what he had just hit with the entire left side of his face was a leg. A thigh. Belonging to his absolutely deranged flatmate. John rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand and groaned.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to wake up. You are going to be a vital factor in this plan, but I expected you would not appreciate being rudely awoken. Time is not particularly of the essence, but you have wasted a great deal of time snoring and muttering about not wanting to die in the shower.” 

Sherlock was talking a mile a minute, and John was still half asleep. His exhaustion weighed heavily on his chest; it had only seemed to intensify with his short amount of sleep. He gave up following his flatmate’s insane rambling, figuring he could repeat himself later - as he probably would. 

“Where are you going? I have to tell you your exact role in this strategy. We’ll have to go over it many times for your mind to thoroughly grasp it.”

“I’m going to the bathroom to finally brave the shower, as clearly it’s been haunting me all night and it’s best to face these sort of fears head-on. Then I’m going to make tea, and maybe then will my sub-par mind be able to follow this conversation. Thanks for considering my lesser intelligence. My ego thanks you.” 

John stumbled slowly out of his room and towards the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. Normalcy was always too much to hope for, but John hoped nonetheless. He resisted the temptation to take a long, hot shower to soothe his still-aching muscles. He actually had dreamed rather vividly about cracking his head open on the tub. Odd, since he certainly had many more deadly foes floating around in his subconscious. A new one last night, even. Perhaps it was a metaphor for the Jim Moriarty ordeal; something innocuous turning deadly. Just as he stepped out of the shower, he realized he had forgotten to bring clothes with him. Rats. He had no desire to put back on the slightly sweaty pajamas now that he was clean, so he wrapped the towel he had been using to dry his hair around his waist and groggily made his way back to his room.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed looking like he had had about 12 cups too many of coffee. His head swiveled sharply towards the sound of John’s feet on the old floorboards, eyes wide.

“Sherlock, this does happen to be my room, and I need to get changed,” John sighed tiredly. “I’m not discussing whatever it is you want until I’ve had tea, so please go elsewhere unless you wish to see me walking about naked pulling on various items of clothing.” 

Sherlock looked as though he was seriously considering it. John rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock, I know you understand sarcasm, you’ve displayed your expert skill in it many times. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you. Now please get out.” He was too tired for this. 

Sherlock rose from his perch on John’s bed and stood up to his full height, straightening his shoulders and peering down at John. John was suddenly struck by how extremely _tall_ his flatmate was. God, he was tired; simply looking up at Sherlock seemed to make him dizzy.

“Out,” John said again, pointing, like he would for a dog.

Without another word, Sherlock swept from the room, head held high. John ran his hand over his face. Damn, this would be a long day. He shook his head and walked over to his drawers to pull out clothes.

Once fully dressed, John walked down the stairs towards the kitchen with a slight bit of trepidation. But as Sherlock wasn’t there to interfere with his mission to make tea and toast, John went about it gratefully. As soon as the kettle boiled, Sherlock strode out from his room and perched on the arm of the sofa effecting the physicality of a crow and wrapped in a silk blue dressing-gown. He was pointedly silent, looking away from John, but John could sense his flatmate was barely containing himself. 

John settled in his chair, then took a long sip of tea. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock off the hook that easy. 

Then he took pity on him. 

“Alright then, what is this mad plan of yours that involves me?”

\---

John was not prepared for this. He had been prepared for a lot, really, but this - this was a little too much. Just a tad not good. His heart was beating painfully, and his face was bright red from a rather unpleasant mixture of anger, embarrassment, and shame. It had been too much to hope that Sherlock wouldn’t deduce what had happened last night. It had been too much to assume that Sherlock would respect his privacy and not go through his phone. It had been too much to even _fathom_ that Sherlock would have an inkling of how not to behave with complete insensitivity. 

John had been sitting there, drinking tea, a tiny bit pleased with himself for making Sherlock wait, blissfully unaware that Sherlock was going to completely mock John’s inner turmoil that he hadn’t even dealt with yet, and worse, attempt to use it for his own gain. John could strangle him, if it weren’t for the shock that had sent his head spinning and his tea crashing to the floor. He took a couple deep breaths. 

“No.” He said, forcing calm.

“No?” Sherlock gasped, sounding scandalized. Oh, the irony. John could punch him.

“No fucking way.”

“But it’s perfect! After what he did to you wouldn’t you want revenge?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I would love revenge. I would love to take my gun and shoot that monster in his fucking face, but-”

“Is that what he did, then?”

“What?” John was still preoccupied with images of a bullet traveling through Moriarty’s skull.

“‘Fuck’ with his face. I was unsure of the specific nature of the sexual act-”

 _“Damn it,_ Sherlock, you just don’t get it, do you?” John shouted, seething, his voice shaking slightly. “I don’t want to talk about this. I am not _discussing the specifics,_ especially as you seem to have gotten most of them all on your own. I’m not going to stand here and explain to you why this is the absolute most callous thing you have ever done to me. You’re a smart man, you can figure it out yourself.”

John moved towards the door. He paused as he got close, said “You know what?” 

Then he launched himself across the room and punched Sherlock with so much force that the usually graceful man fell off his perch on the couch and hit the floor with a smack. His doctor’s instincts were screaming at him to go back and make sure Sherlock was okay, but John spitefully ignored them, stormed out and slammed the door. He took a deep breath. He was shaking. That was utterly humiliating. He was mortified. He couldn’t understand what possessed Sherlock to even ask him to do that. That’s not what people _did_. But it was Sherlock, not people, and of course he would see everything simply as a strategy. It was a game of chess, and Moriarty was Sherlock’s opponent, and John was simply a pawn. And he was absolutely fucking sick of it.

It may have only been 10 am but John desperately needed a drink.


	18. The Concussion

        Sherlock was back at the pool. He was standing where he had froze before, thinking Moriarty was John, still in that awkward, off balance twist with his heartbeat pumping in his ears. But what he saw this time wasn't John alone in the parka-bomb. Instead, John and Moriarty burst through the door from the changing rooms in a tight embrace, faces mashed together in a way that looked almost painful. Sherlock couldn't move, and they seemed to be blind to his presence in the midst of their passion.

        Moriarty shoved John up against the wall, and they were both breathing hard. Moriarty reached down and slowly undid John's jacket, and Sherlock's alarm heightened. He wanted to tell John to run, to flee, but he couldn't speak. He had no control.

        As John's jacket fell to the floor and Moriarty reached for the buttons on his shirt, Sherlock found found his voice and cried out "John!" The man in question turned his head lazily towards Sherlock as Moriarty kissed the exposed skin at his collar, still slowly unbuttoning the shirt. John smiled, his hands entangled in Moriarty's hair as the bomber's head inched lower, kissing John's now-exposed chest. "Hi Sherlock," John said, perfectly calm.

        "John! You have to run, I'll hold him off. He's trying to kill you!" Sherlock must be too early. Moriarty hadn’t shown his true colours yet.

        "Jim?" John addressed the top of Moriarty's head fondly, stroking his ear to get his attention. "We have an audience."

        Moriarty turned to smile menacingly at Sherlock. Sherlock’s chest tightened, and his breath caught as he looked into the eyes of his peer. He recalled the excitement of the chase, the cases and the puzzle of the man before him. Moriarty. As he looked into his eyes, Sherlock nearly forgot about the danger John was in. He forgot about the lives Moriarty had taken, the consequences, and saw only his opponent. His peer. His equal. He was able to move again and straightened his spine, facing them directly.

        Moriarty turned back to John, kissing him fervently. As Moriarty’s lips left his, John looked up and caught Sherlock’s eye. _Danger_. John was in danger. As soon as he remembered this, Sherlock could no longer move or speak. As long as he cared about John he had no control. He was powerless. He willed John to get up and leave, but he didn’t. He stayed. Laughing as Moriarty kissed him lightly under his ear, as they looked into each other’s eyes.

        But then Sherlock got angry. And while he was angry, he could speak.

        “Let him go.”

        Moriarty looked up just as he’d reached John’s belt.

        “No.” Moriarty grinned. “How else do I get to you? You’ve only got one weakness, and that’s little Johnny boy right here. And I’ve got him right where I want him. You’ll never get him back. He’ll always be mine, don’t you get it Sherlock? He’s your heart, and I’m going to burn him right out of you.”

        Then Moriarty turned back to John.

        “Who’s are you, love?”

        “Yours. Yours. I’m yours, Jim. I’m all yours.”

        And with that, Moriarty reached around John’s waist, and pulled them tightly together. John’s eyes closed as he leaned back against the wall, his hands in Moriarty's hair. Moriarty’s eyes snapped up and latched onto Sherlock’s as John began to moan incoherently, as Moriarty ground into him. Sherlock couldn’t look away, his eyes fixed onto Moriarty’s. Moriarty winked, and Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He gasped for breath as John gasped from something Moriarty had done.

        Moriarty let John slide back onto the wall, and stood. John opened his eyes, looking confused. “Jim?” he whimpered, softly. Moriarty paid him no mind as he walked towards Sherlock. The parka-bomb was on the floor between them, though Sherlock hadn’t seen it earlier. He was again pointing his gun at it, though he couldn’t recall drawing it. Moriarty simply walked over the bomb, and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s gun and tugged it from his grip.

        “I do love this little game, Sherlock. But doesn’t it get a little boring after a while? I enjoy watching you dance, but let’s see what else you can do, darling.”

        Sherlock understood he had to comply or else John would be killed. He had to try to look unaffected, to play the next move on the chessboard. But he couldn’t think. His mind was frozen as it had been the last time he was here. He could make no deductions, follow no pattern of events to predict the outcome. All he could do was bluff - he had no firepower. Moriarty had control. His only power lay in the illusion of power, and he would sell it with all he had.

        Sherlock grasped Moriarty and pulled him into a waltz, hoping to startle him. “From what I’ve heard, I dance rather well Jim.” But the man just grinned as they moved about the pool. Sherlock attempted to back Moriarty into the water as he steered, but Moriarty was as quick on his feet as he was with snipers. Sherlock soon found himself precariously balanced on the edge of the pool instead. Moriarty paused - somehow he had ended up leading, when Sherlock had been the one to start. Then Moriarty leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock stumbled backwards from shock, and felt himself falling backwards to the water below. As he started to fall back, John caught his eye from over Moriarty’s shoulder. Sherlock saw the depth of confusion and betrayal in his friend’s eyes, and his heart lurched painfully.

        Just as he was about to hit the water, his brain pulled him awake. 

\---

Sherlock sat up abruptly on Mrs. Hudson’s couch. She wasn’t there, must have left the room for tea or something, so he darted out as quick as he could. His mind was still reeling in confusion between reality and his dream, still disoriented from his concussion. Damn this not being able to think properly! He crept up the stairs curl up on his own couch and wait for coherency. He regretted leaving behind the bag of frozen peas, but he would not move to get them, nor check his own freezer. He realized he had tears streaming down his face and hastily swiped them away, angry at himself for being so weak.

        The worst thing about dreams, Sherlock thought, was how emotions were the main, overwhelming sense. They were often extreme and completely unrelated to the images before him. At least, not literally. There was a reason dream interpretation was near impossible and always subjective; the unconscious mind spoke in riddles, similes, metaphors, and every other idiotic literary device going. No facts. No clarity. Just a jumble of emotions and images. Useless garbage. He usually didn't dream, but when he did it was vivid and took weeks to delete effectively. Damn heightened emotions. Sherlock hated dreaming. He wished the stupid concussion would be gone so he could focus on important things. 

Sherlock turned on his couch and punched the cushions in frustration until he couldn’t move his arms. He was still tired, but he wouldn't allow himself to sleep again. This dullness was just something he was going to have to bear conscious. He usually kept a stash of cocaine in a hiding place for emergencies, and this certainly qualified. But unfortunately Mycroft had just hinted to John where to look, so it was now hidden on the other side of London and Sherlock couldn't leave without alerting Mrs. Hudson. Well, he could escape out the window, but his balance was in question and his likelihood of survival plummeted severely. All he could do was wait, despite how his brain continued to supply fallible escape plans.

        Sherlock usually didn’t allow himself to sleep before a case had been solved, and this one still had so many unanswered questions. He blamed the concussion for the images his mind dredged up, and forcibly thought of it no more.

 


	19. Truth and Beer and Sister Dear

       At ten am there was only one place that was certain to give him a drink with no questions asked. Alright. He needed to make an appearance at his dear sister's soon anyway.

        "Oh Johnny, speak of the fucking devil! I haven't seen you in ages!" John could smell the alcohol on her breath. He felt a twinge of guilt in his stomach, but they had tried everything. Rehab, quitting cold turkey, weaning her off, monitoring her 24/7. Eventually even Clara had to admit Harry just didn't want to he helped, and that was that. 

        "Don't call me Johnny, Harry. You know it annoys me. How would you like it if I started calling you Harriet now, huh?"

        "Ugh John, Harriet sounds like some damn simpering old aunt in fuckin' floral print!"

        "Yeah, and 'Johnny' sounds like a mentally handicapped 12 year old drooling into his bib," John countered with a grin.

        It was a poor imitation of the squabbles they used to have as kids, but it was close enough to affect some nostalgia for the time they weren't so messed up.

        "Come in, come in, can I get you anything?"

        "A beer'd be grand, actually." John sighed. He caught his sisters eye, and she gave him a knowing look he chose to ignore. When she came back she raised her eyebrows slightly at him. He usually made a point of refusing anything alcoholic as a bit of a mean poke at her. It never really did anything but piss her off, but he usually did it anyway as though it would be the thing to shame her into recovery. Even though he knew it wouldn't. Harry seemed to visibly relax at the absence of his usual animosity. He sighed again.

        "It's just been a bit of an insane couple of days." She nodded and that was all that was said on the matter.

        Harry was not by nature a quiet person. She was loud, rambunctious and personable. She talked to everyone about everything, much to the mortification of her brother. John preferred privacy. Public announcements about private matters always irked him. He never minded the facts, so what Sherlock had deduced when they met was alright. But Harry had the habit of spilling her guts to the wait staff or some lady in the elevator, and that never ceased to make him uncomfortable.

        Facts were outside, feelings were inside; any break of that rule was miles out of his comfort zone. Of course, he realized sometimes feelings had to be stated as facts, but those had to be well thought out and planned. Such as “I am angry because  _x_   and you should not do  _y_   because  _a, b, c,”_ etc. There are certain environments when speaking your feelings is alright, and others where it's not. In a relationship sharing feelings was vital; I care about you, I love you, etc - said with caution at the 'right time'. Other feelings like hurt and embarrassment were more tricky still. John was better with anger. Anger was acceptable when warranted.

        However, one situation where it was completely okay to be a giant feeling blob was drunk as an idiot with other people just as sloshed as yourself. Mostly because it was likely no one would remember anything clearly later on, and anything stupid could usually be passed off as "man I was so drunk I don't know what the heck was going on." And even if that was stretching the truth a tad, others would believe it because they'd likely been in a similar state, and could continue with "yeah man I don't remember a thing."

        So after the initial awkward silence where John and Harry simply drank side by side, both occasionally attempting to make conversation and failing to hold it, words flowed from their moths freely. Curiosities _(“I’ve never learned why sea-lions are called that. They look nothing like lions.”)_ , anecdotes _(“...and then she said she was giving her daughter chocolate to help her calm down, but it was what was making her hyper! Some people, I swear they’re idiots!”)_ , fears _(“I’ve always been a bit freaked out by jello, the way it moves...yikes!”)_ ; anything really. Except Sherlock, John didn’t think he could talk about his flatmate without getting angry again. And thankfully Harry stayed away from the past, because there were just too many problems for one day of drunkenness to patch things up. But for now they could put it aside and be brother and sister again.

        Eventually, something John had never had the courage to ask his sister, and had been on his mind lately, came bubbling to the surface. "So, Harry. Uh, how did you know?"

        "How did I know what?"

        "That you're a..." he waved his hands unhelpfully.

        "Well I knew damn right I was a girl when I started to grow-"

        "Shut up, Harry," John laughed, rolling his eyes and punching her lightly in the shoulder.

        Harry laughed, then continued. "Alright. I was expecting this conversation at my wedding, you know, but you were off shooting people over oil or some shit." At a glare from John, she rolled her eyes. "Alright, alright, no politics. Still, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised it took you so long. Give you something straightforward, factual, and you're all bloody over it. Anything to do with 'feelings' and you run in the opposite direction."

        "I don't run-"

        "No, you march!" Harry said with a wink.

        John rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the corners of his mouth turning up. Then he snorted, and he knew he was most certainly drunk.

        "Okay, we've laughed at me now, so tell me. How did you know?"

        "No idea. Just did." Harry shrugged. This didn't sound like it was going to be overly helpful. "The people I wanted to fuck were female. I could be close to guys, hell I even dated a few, you remember high school, but there was always something missing there. I couldn't love them the same, not to mention they didn't 'turn me on,'" she rolled her eyes. "Eventually I just had to stop bloody lying to myself."

        John frowned. Had he been lying to himself? Or was Jim simply his exception? But he definitely liked girls. Women turned him the fuck on. And from what he remembered, men didn't. But it's not like he ever thought about it until Jim showed up out of nowhere. Maybe it had been something floating along in his unconscious mind this whole time, and he just hadn't seen it. Frankly it was weird he hadn't thought of it earlier. He knew the science, if one sibling was, it was more likely the other was too. He'd never even been curious about what it was like for Harry. He only knew that after she came out he couldn't watch lesbian porn anymore because it reminded him of her, and then he'd get angry because she'd fallen off the wagon of her last get-clean attempt, and as you can imagine that would completely ruin the mood.

        Harry coughed, and John realized he'd been frowning and staring into space much too long. His slowed mental state couldn't think up an excuse.

        "So what was the reason for the damn Spanish inquisition all of a sudden? Fall in love with a girl with a girlfriend, and you wanna know your chances?" She grinned.

        John shook his head. He didn't know what to say. He didn’t want to tell her what had happened with Jim, as if somehow saying it out loud would make it more real. If he hadn't spent the last months avoiding his sister like the plague, she wouldn't have asked that. He knew what everyone thought, that him and Sherlock were shagging or dating. No one seemed to shut up about it, actually, no matter how many pointed glares he sent their way. There was a reason he preferred to pay for take-away Chinese rather than eat somewhere that would give Sherlock free food. Like Angelos, for example. There was only so many times he could repeat "I'm not his date!" without it sounding like he was protesting too much. 

        He just shrugged vaguely. He didn't look at his sister. John knew he was a shit liar, and even worse when he was drunk. "Just curious I guess."

        "Oh give me some bloody credit John, I have known you all your damn life. You're never 'just curious.' Every question that comes out of your mouth is predetermined. And you don't have that fucking much curiosity. Out with it, why the hell are you here after all this time, getting drunk on my couch, and asking about how I knew I was queer?" She grinned, clearly anticipating some juicy gossip she could embarrass her brother with at a future date.

        "I don't know, Harry. I guess now I'm not out there "shooting people over oil or some shit" I have a few more brain cells to spare on my dear sister." John poked her shoulder, grinning. Yes, he was most certainly drunk.

        "Oh, darling brother! How dear of you to think of little old me after all this time!" Harry cried dramatically. John laughed. He'd forgotten just how funny his sister could be, when they weren't at each other's throats about the drinking thing.

        Then Harry dragged out a bottle of scotch. John knew he'd already have a headache in the morning, so he waved it away, not thinking. But Harry tensed, all the laughter gone from her eyes, replaced with a steely coldness. And with that brother-sister bonding time was over.

        "You. Fucking. _Hypocrite._ " she gasped. "You're just as fucking drunk as me, so where do you get on that bloody high horse!"

        John tried to backtrack. "No, Harry, I wasn't saying anything. I've just got work tomorrow and I'm already going to have a headache." But he could see in her eyes that was the wrong thing to say.

        "Oh, you've got work! Mr. Perfect Doctor's got work! You know I've just been laid off! You knew!"

        "No, Harry, I swear-"

        "Everyone's a fucking hypocrite! You, Clara... Are you talking to her, Johnny?!" Harry's screech faltered on the name of her wife.

      "No, no, Harry," John reached out for his sister, pity welling up in his throat, thinking of how hard the separation must be. He was amazed at himself. He'd never even thought about her, but to be angry.

      But Harry flinched at the pity in his voice, and he dropped his hands before he could reach her. They had a lot to work through, and he needed to think of her side more often. But not now. Not while he was so drunk, and she was so angry. "I guess I'd better go. Take care of yourself Harry."

       The fight had gone out of her, but she wasn't backing down. "Tell that bitch she's a hypocrite."

      "You're all fucking hypocrites." John heard her mutter as she slammed the door behind him. He turned around and saw her tilt the bottle of scotch back and take a long draught from it. John felt a twinge of guilt and worry, but he could do nothing tonight.

     He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, which proved to be a challenge requiring all of his concentration. John's thoughts didn't stray from his feet until he reached 221 Baker street 2 hours later, thoroughly exhausted. John bypassed the living room to simply go straight to bed. He thought he could sleep for a year and still not be ready to come back to the mess that awaited him between his sister and Sherlock.

 


	20. The Apology

When John came back from Harry's, Sherlock was curled up on the couch in full sulk-mode. Though John knew the great detective had to have heard him clumping up the stairs and entering the flat, Sherlock gave no indication that any of John's movements entered his sphere of knowledge. John could tell from how tightly Sherlock had jackknifed his limbs closer together there was no way he was asleep. John sighed. It seemed that he was somehow alienating everyone all of a sudden. He felt awful about how he'd left things with Harry, and now he wasn't angry with Sherlock he thought his guilt would choke him. He stood there in the doorway for how long he didn't know, just staring at the back of Sherlock's tense, still figure. He heaved another sigh, then went to put his hand on his flatmates shoulder, but Sherlock flinched away, still with his back pointedly to John.

"Alright. Alright, I'll do it. I shouldn't have hit you, it's just..I just...no, I was wrong. It's a great plan." It was an awful plan. But at this point, John would have done almost anything to stop feeling dreadful about how he'd treated everyone. In the army him and his buddies would hit each other constantly, but punching Sherlock today felt different. More violent, somehow. Even though the injury couldn't have been nearly as severe, it seemed he had broken something he wasn't sure he could fix.

"You gave me a concussion," came a terse, muffled voice from the sofa. 

"I didn't hit you that hard," John replied, incredulous. He knew where he'd hit Sherlock. It would have needed to be a much more powerful blow for that, Sherlock was overreacting. 

"Well the floor did," Sherlock's voice replied scornfully. "I've been unable to do any reliable brainwork all day, and have been plagued with ridiculous dreams. Do you have _no_ idea how important this case is? Moriarty is the most talented adversary I have ever come up against and to completely lose a day like this is entirely unacceptable, John. It's not like _you_ can fill in for me, you haven't the capacity. No one does." 

John stifled his irritation, thinking he might pick up a book on anger management next time he was out. He seemed to need it. He was shocked that he'd endangered his friend so severely. 

"God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I'll...I'll get ice, okay?" 

"You're the doctor." Sherlock finally moved, to shrug nonchalantly, but still refused to look at John. John knew what to do for a concussion, but he felt helpless beyond that. So he got ice. He did what he thought would best help the concussion, checked it's severity as much as Sherlock would allow. Sherlock was surprisingly pliant, for Sherlock. He obeyed scowlingly like a child, but when he grew whiny John decided that was as good as he could do then. It didn't seem like a bad concussion; Sherlock didn't seem dizzy or deluded.

"Well, this doctor pronounces you fit for brainwork - as long as you keep icing it and inform me if any changes, and remember to eat."

"Eating has no impact on the healing of a concussion,” Sherlock complained.

“I’m the doctor, and I’m prescribing it as a necessary treatment,” John said kindly. At Sherlock’s continued frown, he decided to appeal to the logician in his flatmate. “Besides, to heal the cells need fuel, for the cells in your body to get fuel you have to eat. I’ll make you some toast, it doesn’t have to be too much.”

Sherlock nodded sharply, then leaned back into the sofa, pulling his legs in close to his chest and leaning his chin on them to look out with wide eyes. John thought he would suffocate with the guilt pressing on his chest. He went in the kitchen to make the toast.

John returned and Sherlock ate the toast silently, still with his limbs jackknifed together and his chin on his knees. Once he was finished, Sherlock uncoiled himself from his position, and strode into his room and closed the door, and John was left alone. He rubbed his hand over his face. He was still a little tipsy, and perfectly exhausted. It would have to wait for the morning. 

 


End file.
